


the venomous tactula

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: your voice inside my head [6]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Evil Inlaws, F/M, Graves' Family, Minor OC - Freeform, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: There's a box waiting for Queenie on the stoop when she gets in. It's addressed to her, a housewarming gift of sorts, but it isn't what she's expecting.





	the venomous tactula

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebeholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/gifts).



> For the lovely Wanderingnork on Tumblr, who gave me an idea that bit and wouldn't let go. Cheers.

There’s a package sitting on the stoop when she gets in. It looks innocent enough – brown parcel paper tied with twine and a note attached. Queenie whispers a quiet _revelio_ , just in case, but nothing happens and so she bends to pick the parcel up and brings it inside with her.   
  
A hush still sits over the brownstone, despite the thud of Queenie’s shoes hitting the wood and the quiet jangle of the coat rack when she spells her jacket to it. Lights flicker on as she passes, carrying the package to the kitchen; the soft, yellow glow illuminates the house in a warm light. and fights back the dreary, rainy spring day. It makes everything a little more cheerful.   
  
Queenie sets the parcel on the kitchen table, humming to herself quietly. She rotates it, searching for the little wisp of paper attached and scans it quickly. Attached with another bit of brown twine, it reads;   
  
 _Mrs. Queenie Graves,_ __  
A house warming present for you, in congratulations of your marriage.  
  
Ophelia M. B.

“Wonder who that could be,” Queenie murmurs to herself. She certainly doesn’t know anyone by the name Ophelia – it isn’t very common in New York, as far as she knows – so it must be from one of Percival’s acquaintances.  
  
She undoes the twine carefully, putting it aside in case she needs it later, and then unwraps the paper. To her surprise, it isn’t a box at all inside the paper, but a bit of shielding spell whipped up to hold edges and corners and appear like a box. Within the spell, which shimmers and glows a strange green-white, is a plant. It’s quite small, but with a distinct, bulbous red head, and the look of it triggers something in Queenie’s brain.   
  
She steps back just in time. The magic suddenly dissolves and the plant, up until this point stationary in its pot, leaps at her.   
  
“Merlin!”

The thing _snarls_ – if a plant could do such – skittering across polished wood and leaping the considerable gap to the counter space. Queenie grasps at her wand in its sleeve, fingers closing around the smooth handle before she fumbles with it go dodge the acid-like matter which the plant spits at her. The substance splatters against one of the cupboards and hisses.

  
“Hey!” Queenie shouts, “That’s enough!”  
  
The plant – Venomous Tactula – her brain mutters, obviously isn’t very good at commands, for it snarls again, inching across the counter as if Queenie isn’t fully aware that it’s there. Her lip curls in disgust, and then triumph when she finally manages to get her wand out from its pocket properly.

“ _Diffindo_!”  
  
A deft flick of her hand has the spell, hot pink and crackling, whipping at the plant. It shrieks upon contact, head separating from the rest of its ugly form only seconds later. Venom oozes from the twitching carcass, hissing and fizzing on the counter. 

“ _Incendio_!”

The Tactula bursts into flame, dying in a writhing mass of blackened skin and evaporating acid. The stench of burning plant matter nearly drives Queenie from the house, even after she douses what remains and vanishes it – never to be seen again. She has to open all the windows throughout the house and spends at least an hour trying to air the place out before she can even think about getting started on dinner.

 ---

“Queenie? I’m – whoo, what is that _smell_?”  
  
Percival’s exclamation makes Queenie’s shoulders sag. She can’t smell the Tactula anymore, but apparently that’s got more to do with her nose becoming acquainted with the awful, half-putrid scent rather than having banished it from their home. She turns away from the stove just in time to see Percival step into the kitchen, his nose wrinkled.   
  
“Someone sent me a Venemous Tactula as a housewarming gift,” Queenie proclaims, setting the wooden spoon down in its holder and crossing the room to give Percival a kiss. He blinks at her, shock and no small amount of worry growing across his face like ice crystals. The sudden fear in his eyes burns bright.  
  
“ _What_?! Are you alright? Did it sting you?”  
  
Percival surges forward, meeting Queenie before she’s even half way across the room and wraps her in his arms. She lets him pat her down, searching for injuries even as she replies that she’s fine.  
  
“No, it only spat at me, and it missed. I killed it, which is why it smells in here.”  
  
Percival’s brows shoot up in surprise now, forehead wrinkling until Queenie reaches up to smooth the lines away.   
  
“How exactly did you kill it, darling?”  
  
“With fire,” she says, “And I spent an hour trying to get the stench out, but it ain’t working. Don’t suppose you know any fancy spell that’ll make it go away, will you? All my clothes are gonna smell otherwise.”

Percival huffs out a laugh, relieved that she’s okay, but that worry still haunts his eyes around the corners, and the divot between his brows hasn’t fully disappeared yet.   
  
“I do know one. I’d also like to know who sent you a Class C restricted substance as a housewarming gift.”

So Queenie shows him the note, still sitting on the kitchen table as innocent as can be. Dark eyes scan the bit of paper, and she watches as thunderclouds slowly follow. His brows draw deep and she has little hope of soothing away the trench between them now.   
  
“I don’t recognize the name,” Queenie offers. When she presses her mind to his – feeling against the edges of his occlumency, the sudden and bitter anger leaves a coppery tang in her mouth like blood. She withdraws quickly.   
  
“I do,” Percival all but growls, “Ophelia Black, née Malfoy. She’s my aunt.”

It’s Queenie’s turn to blink now – surprised and a little hurt, “Why would she…”  
  
Percival picks up the pain in her tone, because his head jerks sharply and he rips his eyes away from the note, swinging to her immediately. He tucks the note into his breast pocket, probably to save for later before murmuring, “Because she’s an awful person, love. I’m so sorry.”  
  
He closes the space between them then, tugging her into a hug. Queenie rests her cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes for a moment. Percival’s hand comes to rest against the middle of her spine, bleeding heat through her thin satin shirt and he ducks his head to kiss her temple. Queenie can’t help but smile when he nuzzles her curls, more like a puppy than a man.  
  
“It ain’t your fault, Perce.”

“I know, but I still feel bad. I was hoping to keep you from the Malfoy snobbery.”  
  
Queenie just rolls her eyes, yet there’s a smile on her face while she does it. The momentary hurt passes at the exasperation in Percival’s tone; Queenie doesn’t need her legilimency to figure out she probably hasn’t been Ophelia Black’s only target.   
  
“You gonna report this?” She breathes, wrapping her arms around Percival’s neck and pressing in closer. Something a little dangerous - and dare Queenie say mischievous - glitters in Percival’s dark eyes. He grins, wide and sharp.   
  
“You know I am. I’m sure the Ministry of Magic will be very interested to learn about Lady Black’s dealings in deadly and illegal substances.”

Queenie only feels a little bit mean for cackling – after all, the woman did send her an attack plant with toxic and fatal stings and acid which put holes in her cupboards. Queenie silently wonders how long it will take Percival to notice.   
  
“How far along are you on dinner?”  
  
She shrugs, parting from him just enough to look at his face.  
  
“Not very, why?”  
  
“I was wondering if you wanted to go out? Give the house some more time to air out before we have to magic it clean. And then we can get started on the report.”

She mock pouts, sticking her lower lip out and making sure it trembles. Queenie doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger over her mouth for a second too long, “You don’t like my cooking?”  
  
“I love your cooking, darling,” Percival says, rolling his eyes, “But I don’t want to eat here when the place smells like stale farts.”

Queenie giggles like a school girl - he’s so undignified sometimes – before taking Percival’s hand and leading the charge towards the front hall and the promise of a dinner somewhere else.  


End file.
